Afterword (1)
Jinlü Chong had suffered severe psychological trauma. After evaluation, the professors at the medical association decided to temporarily return the silk-wrapped mummy to him, allowing them to stay together in the same observation ward before gradually guiding Jinlü Chong into communication.
The doctors carefully wheeled the mummy into the room. Jinlü Chong, who had been crouched in the corner hugging his knees, suddenly stood up, rushed over, and pulled the mummy down into his arms. He sniffed it, then carried his beloved “mummy” back to the corner, spinning fresh silk to replace the soiled outer cocoon.
“Brother.” Holding him, Jinlü Chong rested his chin quietly on the mummy’s shoulder.
Three days later, Yan Yi returned from out of town. The first thing he did was visit Jinlü Chong. Bai Chunian happened to be there as well, so he accompanied him.
Jinlü Chong still resisted interacting with anyone, sealing himself within a small cocoon of his own mind, spending his days holding the mummy in silence.
Bai Chunian pulled the curtain open slightly, letting sunlight filter in through the gap. He turned back and said, “He’s actually already in the mature stage. He can understand what we’re saying. But as you can see… this is where he’s at right now.”
“No need to force him.” Yan Yi removed his coat and sat down beside Jinlü Chong, cautiously extending a hand.
Jinlü Chong slowly lifted his head. His hair had a slight natural curl, his face pale and soft, with a gentle, obedient look. Even the metallic sheen in his eyes wasn’t frightening.
Yan Yi gently touched his cheek. “Wen Chi.”
At the sound of his name, Jinlü Chong trembled slightly, then carefully leaned his cheek into Yan Yi’s palm.
“Oh? He actually reacted.” Bai Chunian leaned in closer.
“Shh.” Yan Yi motioned him quiet and shifted closer, one knee touching the ground. “Wen Chi, come here.”
Jinlü Chong slowly set the mummy against the wall, then inched toward Yan Yi and wrapped his arms around him.
“Good child.” Yan Yi patted his back softly. “Don’t be afraid.”
Jinlü Chong leaned into him obediently, breathing in his scent, lost in a long daze.
“Chairman…” As if recognizing something familiar from the scent, he suddenly buried his face into Yan Yi’s neck. “My brother is gone.”
“My brother is gone.” He broke down, tears pouring uncontrollably. “He turned into a star with my parents! I hate stars!”
Yan Yi lowered his head, murmuring comfort, releasing a gentle, sweet pheromone.
Bai Chunian stood nearby, stretching lazily as he soaked in the high-level pheromones. He had always known the chairman, despite his usual cold and impartial demeanor, was actually very gentle in private—his pheromones soft, like milk candy.
But watching a stranger of an experimental subject be held and comforted in the chairman’s arms as soon as he arrived—it left Bai Chunian feeling a little off.
“You knew him before?”
“Yes. When I was younger, I had some history with his older brother.” Yan Yi sighed softly. “You could call it a conflict. But the child was innocent. Back then, he had just started elementary school—he couldn’t understand the conflicts of adults.”
“Oh.”
Yan Yi stayed in the ward with him for a long time, sharing quite a few stories from his youth with Bai Chunian.
If the chairman hadn’t told him, Bai Chunian never would’ve guessed—Uncle Jin, who doted so much on his partner now, had been so headstrong when he was younger, repeatedly provoking the chairman. Anyone else would’ve been crippled long ago. The fact that he was still alive and well meant the chairman must have truly loved him.
“Be good. I’ll come see you again tomorrow.” Yan Yi gently stroked Jinlü Chong’s cheek. “This brother will come too. Don’t stay silent—don’t make him worry.”
Jinlü Chong looked up, his tearful eyes settling on Bai Chunian. He nodded.
After leaving the ward, Bai Chunian muttered in amusement, “Hey, not bad—came here and picked up a little brother.”
“Aren’t you already Lu Yan’s older brother?” Yan Yi smiled, ruffling his hair before heading off with his files to a meeting.
Bai Chunian lifted a hand to touch his head, standing there in a daze for quite a while.
Afterword (2)
The next day, Bai Chunian and Lan Bo came to visit Jinlü Chong. He wasn’t familiar with them, but since the chairman had guided him the day before, he didn’t show resistance.
Bai Chunian performed a magic trick for him—covering his hand with a handkerchief, then quickly slipping an apple underneath from behind. When he lifted the cloth, an apple appeared in his palm.
Lan Bo clapped expressionlessly. “Wow. Big-eater Bobo Phil.”
Jinlü Chong: “…”
Afterword (3)
On the third day, Xiao Xun came to keep him company.
The two sat in silence. Jinlü Chong took out knitting needles, spinning silk as he worked, and knitted a pair of gloves—one for the mummy, and one for Xiao Xun.
Afterword (4)
“This won’t work—you’re burning through too much energy. If this drags on, our coordination will fall apart.” Lu Yan pulled the hem of his shirt from his waistband and used it to wipe the blood and glass shards from Bi Lanxing’s arm. “Next, I’ll move toward the vine anchor points and come down along the vines. It’ll save some stamina.”
“I know what I’m doing.” Bi Lanxing helped tuck the dirty fabric back into his waistband, then dropped to the ground to rest, exhausted. He looked up at Bai Chunian. “Chu-ge, what’s the plan? Do we just keep wearing him down?”
“The Pastry Chef’s secondary ability doesn’t just erode willpower—it can also drain stamina from enemies and convert it into his own. He’s recovered again.” Han Xingqian descended from the top of the vines, gliding lightly to the ground. Using his J1 ability, Endurance Reset, he restored his teammates’ gland energy.
With the replenishment, the pallor on Bi Lanxing’s overexerted face gradually faded, color returning to his cheeks.
The bandages wrapped around Lan Bo had been scorched through in several places. The wrappings on the back of his hand had burned away completely, leaving loose strips hanging at his side and exposing his pale forearm.
Near his elbow, scattered blue scales were visible—some had been burned, curling back to reveal tender pink flesh beneath. Lan Bo said nothing. He simply licked the wounds twice, tore off a strip of bandage from his body, held one end in his mouth, and wrapped it tightly around the injury.
“You okay?” Bai Chunian asked.
“I’m fine.” Lan Bo clenched the bandage tight between his teeth. “A lousy bug acting this arrogant—figure out a way to drag him into the sea. I’ll deal with him.”
“He can fly. If we let him get out, we might not be able to control him. If he escapes, we’re done for.” Bai Chunian took an alcohol swab from the med kit and pressed it gently against Lan Bo’s missing scales. “My wounds heal. But if your scales fall off, it won’t look good.”
“They’ll grow back if you kiss them,” Lan Bo said with a careless grin, spreading his tail so Bai Chunian could disinfect the bare spots.
Only after finishing did Bai Chunian finally have time to strap the watch Lan Bo had given him onto his wrist. Then he turned to Du Mo. “If we capture the Pastry Chef alive, can we take him back with us?”
Du Mo tightened his grip on his gun, suppressing his anger as he forced himself to stay calm. “Take a good look around. This is a prison, not a daycare. He killed my colleagues—and inmates of the international prison.”
“Yeah, I get it.” Bai Chunian raised an eyebrow slightly. “My condolences.”
“This approach won’t work. We need a new plan.” Bai Chunian observed the Pastry Chef from a distance. The giant bee had landed on a building, feeding on melted syrup.
As the syrup was absorbed into his body, the Pastry Chef’s damaged wings began to slowly repair.
“Han-ge, strip it.”
Han Xingqian beat his wings, and a feather glowing with holy light drifted above the Pastry Chef’s head. In an instant, the colorful syrup coating his wings lost its color, and the regeneration stopped.
Helicopters from the police unit continuously bombarded the Pastry Chef with grenade launchers, forcing him to keep moving. He could only circle the rooftops, weaving between the ruined buildings, steadily draining his stamina.
“Looks like gland damage is affecting him after all.” Bai Chunian thought for a moment. “Lu Yan, approach from behind. Lanxing, keep the vine armor ready for protection.”
“Got it.”
The two of them vaulted over the vine shield wall at the same time. Vines surged across the ground, growing rapidly. Lu Yan stepped lightly across the rising footholds, closing in on the Pastry Chef.
Sensing the incoming threat, the giant bee snapped its head around and immediately activated its M2 ability—Honey Flow Color—on Lu Yan.
“Han-ge, remove it. Lu Yan, don’t retreat—keep moving. Draw him away from the buildings.”
A white feather descended just in time, enveloping Lu Yan in a faint holy glow and neutralizing the sugar infection.
The Pastry Chef buzzed violently and charged at Lu Yan, his blade-like wings slicing toward his waist without hesitation.
“Lanxing, vine armor—don’t cover everything. Focus on the torso. Xiao Xun, take this chance to find high ground—above the Pastry Chef’s nape.”
A layer of hardened vine armor wrapped tightly around Lu Yan’s torso. The Pastry Chef curved through the air, his blade-wing striking Lu Yan. Sparks burst at the point of impact between blade and armor.
The force of the collision sent a sharp pain through Lu Yan’s ribs—his internal organs felt shaken. Still clutching his side, he continued to draw the Pastry Chef’s attention.
Meanwhile, Xiao Xun had already climbed onto the rooftop where the Pastry Chef had previously landed—the highest point in the entire area.
But unexpectedly, the Pastry Chef suddenly changed direction and flew straight toward Xiao Xun, activating Honey Flow Color again. Once marked, unless one’s level exceeded his, the sugar corrosion would eventually consume the entire body.
“Han-ge, protect Xiao Xun. Lanxing, move Lu Yan to the collapsed building at one o’clock.”
Another feather drifted above Xiao Xun’s head, dispelling the incoming infection.
Xiao Xun exhaled softly, searching for the Pastry Chef through his scope.
Now, Xiao Xun and Lu Yan had formed a crossfire position, with Xiao Xun holding the high ground.
“Xiao Xun, tag his nape with a tracking round,” Bai Chunian ordered.
“Copy.”
Xiao Xun pulled the trigger. A sniper round tore through the air, embedding itself into the Pastry Chef’s nape. A square red targeting reticle appeared there—his M2 ability, Hunter Recall Lock, sharing the target’s position with allies.
Lu Yan wasn’t skilled in long-range shooting, but with Xiao Xun’s shared targeting data, his aim was automatically corrected. Combined with ballistic adjustments from the universal interface, as long as his hands didn’t shake, he could hit a perfect bullseye—even blind.
Training a sniper in a squad took enormous time and resources, not to mention finding someone with natural talent. But Xiao Xun’s shared ability elevated every shooter on the team to sniper-level accuracy.
In a squad where each member specialized in different roles, weaknesses were inevitable. But if everyone’s shooting accuracy was boosted to one hundred percent, it effectively turned the entire team into snipers while maintaining their specialties.
Very few squads could boast such an elite configuration.
At last, the equipment was delivered. Shao Wenjing led his men through the night to receive the shipment.
As expected, once the research institute got what they wanted, they immediately turned hostile and had no intention of handing Wenchi over.
Under Shao Wenjing’s threats and coercion, one of the researchers who came to handle the handover finally admitted the truth: Wenchi had already been transformed into a special combat weapon—Designation 211, codename Golden Silk Insect.
Shao Wenjing flew into a rage. He reopened his long-sealed weapons cache, armed himself, and stormed the research institute with his men. The police followed close behind.
By then, Wenchi had already become a Golden Silk Insect in the cultivation stage—his gaze vacant, incapable of communication.
Hummingbird Ailian deactivated the inhibitor on the Golden Silk Insect and ordered him to kill Shao Wenjing. But Wenchi just stood there, unmoving. Ailian then had the researchers inject him with a higher dose of combat stimulant. This time, the Golden Silk Insect lost control and lunged at Shao Wenjing, tearing into his flesh with his teeth.
But Shao Wenjing had not spent that year idly.
He had already prepared for the worst, investigating everything he could about special combat weapons. He learned that once an experimental subject’s food intake reached a critical threshold, they would evolve from the cultivation stage into maturity—at which point their strength would surge and their cognitive ability would return.
That was his only chance to save Wenchi.
So he pretended he could no longer resist, lying on the ground and letting the Golden Silk Insect devour him. Wenchi tore through his chest and half his shoulder, eating the flesh clean off.
At the same time, the monitoring indicators connected to the Golden Silk Insect began to spike. His intake index climbed rapidly.
When it reached 99.97%, Hummingbird Ailian finally realized Shao Wenjing’s plan. She immediately reactivated the inhibitor and released the first-generation experimental subject—No. 1513, “Serpent-Eyed Woman”—to drive out the intruders and hunt Shao Wenjing down.
At that time, no one truly understood experimental subjects. Shao Wenjing was already gravely injured—his death should have been inevitable.
And yet, after the battle ended, when the institute went to recover the Golden Silk Insect and the Serpent-Eyed Woman, and to search for Shao Wenjing’s body…
He was gone.
From that day on, he vanished without a trace.
Years later, the Golden Silk Insect was cultivated to a suitable state. Around that time, the Ruruo Fangcheng Group sent Rucheng to purchase an experimental subject. Their business funds came from questionable sources—they needed to pay so-called “protection fees” to the Red-Throated Bird and launder their money. Delivering a novel weapon was the perfect solution.
After leaving the institute, the Golden Silk Insect had no clear memories—but instinct drove him home.
Relying on muscle memory, he found the hidden chamber behind the bookshelf.
When the shelf slid aside, Shao Wenjing was there—lying on a bed inside the secret room, his entire body wrapped in silk like a mummy.
He held a knife in his hand. The blood on the blade had long since dried.
At the back of his neck—where his gland should have been—there was an empty cavity. Blood had once soaked the sheets beneath him, now turned dark and blackened with time.
Beside the mummy lay a heavily scratched AK-74. Wrapped around the stock with silk was a gland—still beating.
Pinned beneath the gun was a letter:
“I knew that if you were still alive, you would come home.
Wenchi, from now on this gun will protect you in my place. Those who love you will all become stars in the end, forever shining over you. This is a law—there is no need to be sad.
Forever loving my precious one. I am always here.
Your brother, Wenjing.”
After hearing the Golden Silk Insect’s story, Bai Chunian stood at the edge of the garden, his mind completely blank, staring off into space for a long time.
At first, he had thought—if the Golden Silk Insect wanted to bury his brother, he could use his own ability to dissolve the body into a glass bead, so Wenchi could carry his brother with him at all times.
But now… even that felt nowhere near enough.
“Your brother left his body to you… maybe this was his way of staying with you,” Bai Chunian said, squatting down and drawing patterns in the dirt with a flower stem. “His gland is still alive. If you bury him… he’d probably feel cold, right?”
He paused, thinking.
“If I were gone, I’d want to leave my gland to someone I love too—to live on with them. If they were willing to accept it… I’d feel like I wasn’t abandoned.”
That night, Bai Chunian called Han Xingqian.
The next day, the Medical Association declined to take Shao Wenjing’s remains. Wrapped in silk, the body would never decay, nor emit any odor—it posed no harm to others.
So the body was left with the Golden Silk Insect.
When Wenchi returned to the garden, he carried the mummy on his back as before, tending to the roses—pulling weeds, watering them.
His M2 differentiation ability, Twin Thought Silk, allowed him to control the cocoon threads. Fine strands of silk floated through the air, connecting to the mummy’s limbs and fingers.
With a slight movement of his own fingers, the mummy would step down from his back, pick up a watering can, walk to the faucet to fill it, then carry it back and hand it to him—its movements lifelike.
—
As for Bai Chunian and Lan Bo registering their marriage…
It took Bai Chunian a long time to process it. Late at night, he would often take out the marriage certificate from his drawer and stare at it under the desk lamp.
He had even bought a thick notebook from the stationery shop downstairs. After Lan Bo fell asleep, he would quietly write down plans and ideas for their wedding—preparations he intended to carry out once he returned from the military base.
He had already discussed the design of the rings with a designer. Thanks to Lu Shangjin’s influence, a veteran artist from Huanshi Fengfei personally designed Bai Chunian’s proposal ring.
He poured in his savings from over three years—an eight-figure sum—secretly preparing everything. He wouldn’t even buy cigarettes over ten dollars, but when it came to Lan Bo, he didn’t hesitate to spend a cent.
But he couldn’t just do nothing in the meantime.
So Bai Chunian picked an auspicious day and treated his colleagues to a meal. He had a massive ten-tier square cake made in the shape of a marriage certificate, and in front of everyone, he announced his engagement—saying they’d soon be drinking at his wedding.
The alphas were both envious and jealous, while some of the younger omegas, who had finally given up hope, drowned their sorrows in alcohol.
Duan Yang from the tech department raised his glass and teased him, “That merman is gorgeous—but way too fierce. How did you manage to tame him?”
“Who says he’s fierce? He’s tiny—just coax him a little and he’ll come over and act spoiled,” Bai Chunian said after a few drinks, grinning. “He’s soft as hell. Seriously—right in front of me, he’s completely obedient.”
That day, Bai Chunian had deliberately left Lan Bo out of it. It was a gathering with his colleagues, after all—he was worried Lan Bo might feel out of place.
But there was always someone like Carrier Pigeon—dense and clueless—who took photos and posted them to his social feed without filtering anyone out, even tagging Bai Chunian and loudly congratulating him.
They were in the middle of drinking when suddenly, there was a knock on the door.
Bai Chunian froze, glancing around. Everyone who was supposed to be there was already present—so who was it?
He opened the door.
Lan Bo stood there.
He wore a suit on his upper body and held a bouquet in his arms.
Everyone inside was stunned.
Lan Bo tried his best to rise up on his tail, balancing on the rear portion of it, attempting to make himself look taller than Bai Chunian—but failed. He couldn’t stand very steadily like that.
Bai Chunian lowered his gaze to the bouquet in his hands. His smile froze.
Black wrapping paper, white flowers.
“…So how exactly did you decide on this color scheme?” Bai Chunian asked.
Lan Bo answered seriously, “In the darkness, white thorn roses will keep you company.”
Bai Chunian stared into his deep, beautiful blue eyes. Fueled by alcohol, he suddenly pulled him into his arms, lifted him by the hips, and pressed him against the wall, kissing him fiercely.
He pulled out the proposal ring from his pocket, pried it out of its velvet box, and—without giving him any chance to refuse—forced it onto Lan Bo’s finger.
Lan Bo’s fingers were webbed, so the ring caught against the membrane. At such close range, looking at the vivid, breathtaking merman in his arms, something deeply possessive and desperate ignited within Bai Chunian.
He shoved the ring all the way in.
Then he released a surge of soothing pheromones, forcing the torn webbing to rapidly heal—sealing the ring permanently onto his finger.
The surrounding colleagues, who had been cheering and watching the show, were instantly overwhelmed by the thick scent of brandy-like pheromones.
Lan Bo flinched slightly at the pain and glanced down at the ring now embedded in his finger.
“…Mm. That hurts.”
Bai Chunian kissed him again, not letting him breathe.
—
The story of Bai Chunian drunkenly forcing a kiss on Lan Bo and shoving a ring onto his finger spread like wildfire across IOA’s social circles.
Some anonymous gossipers even started rumors that Bai Chunian had sadistic tendencies.
Back home, Lan Bo lounged sideways on a single-seat sofa, admiring the ring on his hand with clear delight. The pink diamond was set in the shape of a cat’s paw.
“Human junk can actually be pretty sometimes,” Lan Bo said, pointing a gun at the back of Bai Chunian’s head. “So that means you can strip open my shirt in public, kiss me obscenely, and then stick your hand under my fins and grope around however you want?”
Bai Chunian had sobered up.
Now he was kneeling on a keyboard, head pressed against the wall. The white lion ears poking out of his black hair drooped low.
“…Waaah.”